


Once

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarek and Scotty work on a shuttlecraft together, then stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: "Drabble" for “Sarek” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s strange, at first, working with a Vulcan. Montgomery’s worked with just about everything else, and he’s had moments with Spock, of course, but mostly he’s in _charge_. He can bark orders at humans and Roylans alike, making sure that his beloved engines are top priority. ...It doesn’t work that way with Vulcans. 

Montgomery’s nervous and not quite himself and in that awkward-laugh stage half the time, even though he’s pretty sure his laughter always goes straight over Sarek’s head. Sarek rarely responds to his small talk, just works away on the little vessel nestled inside the cargo bay, being properly remodeled into a whole new animal. (Maybe Sarek’s just a really good listener.)

It’s fascinating, really. Montgomery’s seen his fair share of ships in his day, but he rarely gets his hands on purely Vulcan designs—efficient, streamlined things at the peak of aesthetic beauty. This little ship is already perfectly functional, but it needs a few more tweaks to do what the Vulcans need—test for things they haven’t needed to test in millennia. Finding the perfect New Vulcan is... a complicated business. 

If Sarek finds this mission depressing, he doesn’t show it. Even if it makes Montgomery uneasy, he couldn’t expect anything less. It’s just the two of them in the cramped cockpit, Sarek working the navigation panel and Montgomery on his back underneath it, fiddling with wires. This ship is their baby, built by the best, honed by just the two of them. In a way, he’s honoured. Over the course of this week, he’s seen with his own eyes just how talented the Ambassador is. Not many can keep up with Montgomery’s full-blown Engineer lingo, but Sarek matches all his theories and then some. For a long time, it’s just been the two of them. The very best. Together, Vulcan’s in very good hands. 

Vulcan will be on its own in a few days, when the Enterprise is forced to stop stalling and move on. Captain Kirk and Commander Spock’s unorthodox maneuvers can only evade command for so long. Then they’ll be on their own, and Sarek better find another assistant who’s half as good as Montgomery is. 

When he finally pushes out from under the console, sitting up despite his groaning back, he can’t stifle his yawn. They’ve been at it for well over sixteen hours, nothing to a Vulcan, but trying for a human. Sarek would know that. Montgomery feels instantly guilty after thinking that. Even if Sarek does have more experience with humans than most Vulcans, that’s... over now. Whether or not he actually has a penchant for the species is none of Montgomery’s business. No matter how close work gets them. He rubs at his eyes, fully aware he’s getting grease smeared over his face—he’s never much of a beauty anyway. Hopeless next to the godlike statue that is Sarek. His head goes to the dogs when he’s busy and sober this long without more than a two-minute snack break.

“Do you require rest, Commander?” Sarek asks him, long fingers stopped along the panel. Glancing at them longer than he should, (those elegant digits could do wonders with his engines) Montgomery finally manages to push to his feet. 

“I just need a wee bit o’ drink,” Montgomery decides. He smoothes his uniform out, the bright red covered in smatterings of grey and brown. For whatever reason, something Montgomery can’t explain, he adds with a hopefully charming smile, “Fancy a bottle?” Which is a terrible invite for someone like _Ambassador Sarek_ , but there, he’s said it. He’s been meaning to ask for sometime, maybe, over the course of this week, but a ‘no’ seems so imminent. He wipes the dopey smile off his face immediately; they’re not schoolgirls. 

Sarek simply lifts an eyebrow. Montgomery realizes belatedly that despite whatever fondness for humans Sarek might have, drinking vernacular probably isn’t in his repertoire. Cheeks probably pink beneath the oil stains, Montgomery rephrases, “Do you wan’ to have a drink with me?” And he says it slowly, collected, as proper as he can manage, accent smoothed. Sarek’s eyebrow descends back into place, face then stoic as ever. Montgomery neglects to say just what sort of drink it’ll be. 

“That would be... agreeable.”

Montgomery’s pretty sure that’s Vulcan for ‘I would love to,’ so he nods and heads for the door of the shuttle. He hops down the little ramp himself, meeting the cold steel of his floor with a familiar rightness. Then he turns and holds out his hand, as though to help Sarek down the ramp, and then he feels like a right idiot but stays where he is nonetheless. 

Sarek doesn’t take his hand, which isn’t surprising. Montgomery was briefed: don’t touch them, don’t shake their hands, don’t hold their hands. Once Sarek’s standing next to him, Montgomery closes his fists and bangs them uselessly at his sides, “Right. ...Righ’.” He’s no good at this. He should never be on any diplomatic, social duties. He belongs with machines. Machines only. And not the other handsome men that make them work. 

The journey to Montgomery’s office is a twisted one; he takes shortcuts through other departments and cargo bays and doesn’t realize until too late that Sarek might prefer the scenic route of the corridors. This is the fastest way, though, and Vulcans value nothing if not efficiency. Sarek simply follows Montgomery’s steps, noting distantly, “Could we not have used a nearer Synthesizer?”

Montgomery snorts before he can stop himself. Then colours. “No’ for the good stuff.” And he wouldn’t give Sarek any less. A man like this deserves to be taken out right. There’s a bar-like section up near the officer’s lounge, but either Montgomery doesn’t think Sarek would like the public setting, or he’s not ready to share just yet. An irrational jump to conclusions, either way. Nonetheless, they make it to his little, cramped, over-stuffed office, and he holds out the door. He knows it’s a mess to others, though he has every idea what and where everything is. With the amount of equipment that passes through his hands, he can only keep things immaculate in his own way. 

Sarek makes no comment on the mess, merely steps a few paces in and stands, hands behind his back. His eyes drift neutrally over the room, only the subtle, millimeter-at-a-time movement of an eyebrow betraying any reaction. There’s probably more than one rarity in here he appreciates, and Montgomery glows too much with that knowledge. A man of intelligence would have to find something of note in here. The compact trans-warp probe in the corner alone should merit significant interest once he finally finishes it. But it’s his desk he heads to, with the colourfully shaped bottles displayed above it. 

His usual scotch isn’t right for a man like Sarek, he knows. He pours himself a glass of Mrennenimus brandy, the cups always ready, and he turns to Sarek to clear his throat. Sarek glances back at him, posture still perfect. Montgomery sheepishly admits, “I know Vulcans aren’ particularly partial to the spirits, but I’m afraid it’s the best I’ve go’ to offer.” He holds up the bottle, already steeled for rejection. 

But Sarek nods towards another glass and says quite calmly, “We may do so, on rare occasions, though its other properties will have no effect.” Then he adds, more pointedly, “I do expect you to stay sharp, Commander.”

Trying not to be too indignant, Montgomery flushes. “O’ course.” Drunk off his ass, he’d still be the best engineer in Starfleet. But he knows better than to lose himself around pre-existing temptation, even the absurd kind that he can’t even be sure why he’s starting in on. He pours Sarek a glass and pulls up another wheeled chair—Sarek takes it and sits with an unabashed elegance. 

Parallel to the desk, the two of them take their drinks, facing one another with a sort of dimmed mutual respect. Montgomery takes a bigger swig than he means to initially, the rush and burn a pleasant relief to the tension of... whatever _this_ is.

Montgomery watches the jagged blue liquid disappear down Sarek’s bow lips, and then Sarek lowers his glass. He looks at it almost curiously, but as always, he’s a mystery. More machine-like than most people, but, Montgomery muses around his second helping, maybe that explains his attraction. Perhaps deciding it benign, Sarek goes in for another sip. 

He’s more than a machine, though. A true genius, when it comes down to it, in more than just engineering, Montgomery knows. Though engineering’s what he’s interested in. It’s rare for him to find a match, someone who can keep up with him, inherently know what to do just as well as Montgomery would. For a moment, Montgomery just studies the man before him in a way that their constant work has yet to allow. Sarek’s been through so _much_ over the past few years, but he’s strong, doesn’t look haggard or weighed down, just refined and solid. There’s a grace to him few organic beings possess, a natural assuredness and reasoning. Yet, under all of that carriage and intellect, he’s maintained a sharp handsomeness that doesn’t betray his years. He could be only a tad older than Montgomery, though Montgomery knows the truth is far from it. What must it be like, Montgomery wonders idly, to know you’ll outlive almost everyone else around you?

Maybe he should’ve opted for water. Taking another gulp as an excuse to look away, Montgomery’s only drawn back a second later—Sarek lowers his glass to say, “Though it is considered illogical on Vulcan to express gratitude, my time with humans has taught me its importance to your kind. I would like to thank you, Mr. Scott, for your work with us.” Montgomery’s face turns red—it’s not like he chose the assignment himself. And there is no ‘us’ but them.

He nods anyway and mumbles, “No problem.” He puts his cup down on the table, hand lingering so his fingers can stroke the glass: the comfort of alcohol with the distance from too many fast sips. 

And then it gets stranger; Sarek’s hand lands on top of his, pinning his warmth to the table. Shocked is a mild way to put it. 

“The two of us make an excellent team,” Sarek says. His voice is steady, free of intonation, and Montgomery squints, searching his face for some sort of explanation. They weren’t supposed to touch. They’ve brushed this whole time, of course, but nothing so... deliberate. Sarek’s behaviour is borderline blatant: something that makes Montgomery’s chest tighten with a flare of imagination. “My apologies if I have misunderstood, but I believe I have become somewhat skilled in the subtle art of reading, as humans would say, the ‘signs.’” Montgomery’s not entirely sure what he means. 

Montgomery mutters dumbly, “Oh.”

Perhaps at that lackluster response, Sarek’s hand leaves his. It stays flat on the table, a few centimeters away, while Montgomery’s left in the mind-blowing assumption that Sarek’s kindly made the first move in the style of Montgomery’s planet. And Montgomery has absolutely no idea what that translates into Vulcan or what the appropriate second move is. Maybe he misread everything. He didn’t even know Sarek was... looking.

But apparently Montgomery’s been displaying signs. He still can’t seem to say anything. He takes another drink, but the familiar burn does nothing for his ability to navigate the odd silence between them. Sarek asks levelly, “Have I misunderstood?”

And Montgomery says, “No.” Couldn’t even say why. Didn’t even think. Just said it. He has some vague, wild notion of the two of them cruising around the galaxy in their beauty of a shuttle, inventing all sorts of wonders, then remembers the Enterprise is his first love and he’s probably gone insane. 

Sarek asks, “Do you wish to proceed?”

“Yes.”

“I admit I am not fully adept in the extent of that particular part of human psychology—it has been some time since I last employed such measures.”

Rather stupidly, Montgomery suggests, “Anything?” And then he wonders how in the hell he garnered Sarek’s interest; suddenly he’s a stunned moron with two left feet. How do people ever date Vulcans, anyway?

Sarek lifts his hand, index and middle finger held together. Montgomery mirrors the movement, a fast learner however otherwise stupid, and he lets Sarek come forward to press them together. A shiver instantly runs up Montgomery’s spine at the warmth of the contact, the tingling sensation of _skin_ on _skin_ , and something else underneath that he couldn’t explain. Sarek’s fingers run slowly down his, lingering at the base of his palm and drifting back up. Montgomery mentally pours over everything they’ve done this week—have there been signs all along, signs in himself he’s been oblivious too? When he really _thinks_ about it, they’ve touched dozens of times, bare hands slipping over one another in passing tools, working controls, smoothing metal into place. Is that flirting for a Vulcan? Maybe he’s looked too long. Maybe it’s been too long since he had any. Has he been flirting the whole time? Maybe too much time in space and the fumes of the engines have just left them both completely mad. 

Their hands lower back to the desk. Montgomery hadn’t even noticed them lifting in the air. He looks at Sarek, really _looks_ at him, and Montgomery sucks in a breath, then downs the rest of his liquor. 

He thinks _fuck it_ , because when is he ever going to get another chance like this? And he slams his glass against the table and lunges across to Sarek, kissing him so fiercely that they both topple off their chairs to the floor, rolling so that Sarek’s on top of him. Montgomery tries to apologize, but his words are swept away in the faintly alcoholic taste of Sarek’s lips. Bullshit that brandy doesn’t work on Vulcans. 

When Sarek does push off and climb back to his feet, he looks as dignified as ever. He helps Montgomery up. He waits for Montgomery to hesitantly press back into him, standing straight and proper, and they go from there.


End file.
